


Only This And Nothing More

by Gwennis



Series: Within Our Souls [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwennis/pseuds/Gwennis
Summary: All 'round Thedas are whispers that never cease. Of the most unrelenting is that of what the Chantry has deemed as the "Bound." Wherein two souls who bare the same mark are bonded, body and soul, to one another. Such heretical nonsense has been laid down as a tyrannical myth. Is it simply so?Parrish Trevelyan is not a good man, he knows as such. Templar, born and bred, stumbling into such a fate as Bound to one Dorian Pavus.Safe to say, it will be an adventure at the least.





	1. Annie Trevelyan

**“To say goodbye is to die a little.”  
**

**— Raymond** **Chandler**

The wind bit at the coast, water crashing in its wake and pulling down pieces of ancient rock into the sea. The sun, which was hidden behind winding clouds, peeked out from the grey puffs, illuminating the crest of House Trevelyan with an almost eerie luster. A new crimson ribbon fluttered in the wind, braided into dark hair and glittering against the dreary backdrop. Annie was perched upon a crumbled rock, small hands covering her eyes as she counted aloud. The flare of the waves seemed to drown out her words, but she knew Parrish would hear her. _One._

Annie peered through her parted fingers, catching Mother’s familiar crimson sash flutter by through the window that the girl sat by. She knew the woman was fretting over the servants. Her meticulous nature never ceased, regardless of the situation. Annie could hear the scrapping of chairs being moved and floors being swept, a familiar noise she didn’t know could be of comfort her. She locked the memory of the clamor away, conscious she would never hear it again. _Two._

Annie could feel the splash of the water biting at the exposed skin of her neck; small daggers digging into the skin in an attempt to twist her closer to the depths. She shivered, almost hearing the whispering of the ocean beckoning to her, calculated words intended to sway her into its grasp. The temptation alit within her, a buzzing spreading across her skin that she wasn’t sure was real or not. _Three._

The buzzing sang in her ear like a chorus, wind echoing across her skin like a song; sacred, a melody only for her. She stood, weathered sandals creaking against the rocky earth, letting her hands fall down her sides as her eyes fell open. The cresting waves continued to fall in limbo behind her, but the young Trevelyan could not bring herself to set her eyes on the darkness, for the daggers might latch onto her and never release. _Four._

Tears clouded her steel gaze, but she was unable to comprehend exactly what caused the flood. Blinking, the droplets fell down her cheeks, still filled with a youthful flush that didn’t quite convey how aged and worn she truly felt. The symphony continued to rise until it was near deafening. Annie settled her hands over her ears, slamming down harshly to try and block out the never-ending lay. Cascading into a heap on the dirt below, Annie could smell the all too familiar scent of rain, brewing close. Crackling thunder lanced across the dusky sky, patches of light breaking through the shadow. A pillar of the gleam gushed across her palm, open by her head as her other continued to cover her ear. A smile wound its way across her raw-bitten lips, shadowed by the dim halo of light. _Five._

Annie could not remember how long she laid there, small droplets of rain beginning to pepper her quivering body, clearly at a loss for distinguishing what was her tears from the rain zig-zagging dow her face. However, she jumped when she felt hands tugging her up into warm arms. _Oh_, she thought, leaning unconsciously into the warmth, _that’s nice._

“Annie.”

Upon hearing the faint whisper of her name, glanced up to the figure that held her so carefully, as if she would come apart at the seams in their arms. The smile pulled at the corners of her mouth again upon seeing the owner of said arms. “Parrish,” she breathed, grey irises meeting their matching, worried-looking, pair. The same set she had looked into as they exchanged gifts this morning—his gift the ribbon and hers a loose bandana now tied around his neck.

He was dressed in too small leathers and scraps of crimson fabric—matching the new token, sewn together with the uneven needlework that only their mother embodied, no matter how much she denied it so. The familiar crest of House Trevelyan was branded into the cheap cloth, ripped and scraggly at the corners so it only read some of the house motto, _Modest in temper_—she giggled, brushing her fingertips along the insignia. _Bold in deed_, she finished to herself, her smile flitting into a grimace.

“You never came looking for me, I got scared. Why are you on the ground? Mother will string us up if we aren’t presentable when the Templars come. We can probably sneak you-“ Parrish continued to babble, helping her up and brushing the dirt off her arms, all with the permanent gentle touch. Annie’s mind drifted to the latter, the Templars. Today, the order came to collect both she and Parrish, who now had a concentrated scowl fixated across his features. She wished to smooth the tension from in-between his brows, sewn permanently into his flesh with his never-ending worry for her. Though, she knew it would never cease, she couldn’t change what caused his loss of sleep. Her magic. The humming underneath her skin. The wildfire flashing behind her eyelids every time she closed them. Constant pushing and pulling as the demons carved a path to get to her, always one step ahead. Such untamed power was the one constant she could never turn away from.

“Yes, I know,” Her voice was trembling, “I just wanted to lay in the grass one more time, I must have drifted off.” The lie was feeble, both of them knew it, but he just rolled his eyes and tugged her along toward the servant’s entrance behind the house. Annie took this moment to glance down at her dress, the hem encrusted with mud and the side not looking much better. A flush streamed to her cheeks as she allowed herself to be tugged along by her brother. The scene was almost laughable, considering the inches she held over him.  
The siblings wound their way around the rocky bends, his hand clutching her wrist as they ducked down when coming in view of the windows lining the side of the Trevelyan “mansion.” The slightly dilapidated house was weathered from the constant storms in the Free Marches, tilted off its foundation by the slouching earth. House Trevelyan itself was more for functionality rather than the ornamental facade other parts of Thedas seemed to covet. The only decoration Father had bothered with was the gold trim around the doorframes, a quirk that Annie found herself carding away for later recall. She grazed her fingertips along the doorframe as they snuck through the entrance, quietly shutting the door once they were inside.

Luckily, the only of the twin’s siblings left living the house, Jules, was too busy fawning over her fiancé in the sitting room to notice the pair sneak past her and up the stairs. Parrish nudged her with a grin and started with the move up the stairs with a burly speed, one Annie could’ve easily outmaneuvered and beat him up the steps, but she let him win.  
He waited in the hall to keep watch as she hurriedly changed, hesitating to glance around her room for a final time. Her heart broke as she fixed her gaze upon the place she had become so fond of. Her eyes slinked to her bed, the tattered stuffed bear that sat placidly on the freshly made sheets. _A gift from Father when he returned from Kirkwall._ Grey eyes moved to the quilt tucked on a chest in the corner of the room. _Grandmother knitted that to keep Parrish and I warm when we were sick, told us it had special powers._ Familiarity bubbled in her chest as her eyes burned at the memory, but then they fell to the wagon set up against the wall. _Gabriel would pull us around in that when we were little, Parrish fell out one time and broke his wrist, mother was so mad she had father break the handle_—Her gaze fell upon the splintered handle, freely weeping as she wrapped her thin arms around her body. She slid down to collapse in a heap on the floor. _I don’t want to leave._ The thought hit her full force, choking her up as she let out a strained sob. _Dear Maker, I don’t want to go, not today._

Annie hadn’t been aware of when Parrish strode into the room, which was difficult to regard as the truth since the young boy’s gait was a bit heavy. Warmth flooded her chilled bones as he slipped down beside her, once again wrapping her in his embrace and pulling her close to his chest. Wet cloth pressed against her cheek as she cried, a tremor running through her hand as she clutched the front of his leathers, digging her nails into the stiff material. “I don’t want to go,” Her voice was minuscule, wavering as she quieted her blubbering sobs into a soft sniffle, watery eyes catching his, “Parrish I can’t-“ He cut her off, letting her loose of his hold and instead cradling her face in his hands. Parrish looked so young in front of her, steely eyes lit full with hope. His thick dark hair fell in waves across his forehead, blocking his scrunched eyebrows. You need a haircut, she mused to herself, finding it easier to ignore the orchestra playing in the back of her head when she focused in on something, like so.

“You are not alone,” He whispered, drawing her from her musing and back into the harsh reality, “I will always be there with you. I promise, Annie, _I will never let anything happen to you_.” The admission sat in her heart, which pounded erratically in her chest. Although, she didn’t know if he was trying more to convince himself of his divulgence or her. “You promise?” She settled on, eyelashes brushing across her flushed cheeks as she attempted to read his gaze. “I promise.” Certainty laced his voice and Annie found herself believing him, a smile gracing her lips as she pulled him into a hug, grasping him tightly. Regardless of the truth behind his words, this was real, he was real and she would cherish this forever.

A grating knock on the door brought the twins apart, their intent gaze shifting toward the sound. “Miss Annie, your mother wishes to see you downstairs.” The voice that spoke was nasally, leading Annie to conclude it belonged to Mother’s newest servant. The woman could not often find the help that would take on her high-strung frame of mind, she hoped for this poor girl that Mother would be gentle.

“Yes, coming.” She cursed to herself when her voice betrayed the apprehension she felt. She stood, smoothing her hands down over the fabric that had long since wrinkled, sparing a glance at Parrish who stood beside her. “It will be alright,” an attempt to smile away his worry, “It’s my turn to be brave now.” The quivering of her voice laid bare the mask, but Parrish decisively chose to brush past it and instead gripped her hand tightly.  
Words between them weren’t necessary, the look they shared was enough.  
Annie turned on her heel and made her way to the sitting room, where Mother now sat alone. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the woman, so poised and stoic in front of her. Anguish and sorrow crumbled Lady Trevelyan’s guise, revealing to her youngest daughter the expression of a woman laden with knowing too much and yet not enough. Annie’s chest clenched as she noted the absence of her father. Though the man was rarely present for matters of note, she had not primed herself for the notion that Father would not see her off.

Silencing her thoughts, Annie took a seat next to her mother, noting how she, unlike much of her family, did not shrink away from the girl as if she was an incurable disease. The perception made her chest flood with a love-filled warmth. Stillness enveloped them as her mother hesitantly took her hand, grasping it with bruising strength. Annie held back the wince and clenched her mother’s hand, spotting Parrish out of the corner of her eye. Taking the spot on Mother’s other side, he leaned his shoulder against her’s.

“T-They are waiting for you outside.”

Both Annie and Parrish moved closer to their mother then, whether to relish in this moment of her presence or in comfort for the woman that bore them, neither knew. Parrish pushed himself up, kissing her on the cheek with a stoic expression. Parrish wasn’t a crier.

“Goodbye, Mother.” His words echoed for the both of them as they stood. Annie could not bring herself to say anything, concentrating her efforts on not letting a distressed sob slip past her lips.

Rough hands led them along outside, toward a rickety carriage that looked more like a mobile prison than anything. Annie guessed the intent of the semblance to such unwelcoming places. A grimace laced across her features, tensing at the calloused hands that mushed her along as if she were a Fereldan’s loyal mabari. Nervousness trickled through her pounding blood as the moved Parrish further away from her as if her magic would poison him, corrupt her own brother beyond recognition. The thoughts bounced around her head—_slammed_ against—the walls of her skull. Silencing the voices had never been one of her specialties, but it had been an area Parrish had always been well-versed in, but now they were leading him away—away from her.

“Parrish-” The name slipped from her lips before she could contain it, the anxiousness slipping into her words. Hands tightened on her forearm, a yelp echoing against the rocks surrounding them, “Quiet, mage.” The templar chastised her, practically black eyes narrowing in unfiltered hatred. _Well, that’s not very comforting._ Timorous sparks seemed to lick up and down her arms, alit before she even realized the mistake.

Annie vaguely recognized her brother breaking free from the shorter templar that held him, ducking toward her—lips moving, but she couldn’t make out what words they formed. Everything seemed to shift around her in slow motion, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ear. The templar holding her had released her—likely due to the purple light creeping up her arms and around the skin, kissing it but not quite pressing down. Steely eyes fell to her palms, trembling with power—_radiating_ it.

“Annie-“ She heard his voice now, the tenderness that existed for her—only her. “Annie, you have to stop, you..you..” Parrish was now an arm's length away from her crackling form, hesitant to reach toward her in fear of the lightning biting at his skin. Annie’s brows furrowed. Why was he scared of her? He was never afraid before, never.

“Please, Annie. They’re going to-“

She felt it before he could even finish his sentence. Silenced. Templars were given “gifts” to deal with mages, but she had—of course—never had a first-hand encounter with the influence that was dispelling magic. Drained. She felt drained. A cold metal bit at the skin of her arms, her limp body was putty in the templar’s harsh grip. _Stupid, stupid girl._ The voices choked her—daggers digging into her skin. The thunder of the oncoming storm still shook the sky overhead, the faint crash of the coastal waves slamming against crumbling rock. Digging deeperdeeper until she belted out an agonizing shriek, flailing in the arms of the two templars that now held her in place. Twisting and turning—_broken and bloody_—why wouldn’t they leave her? Creeping and crawling in the darkest junctions of her mind, imprisoning her within herself. _Annabelle,_ they whispered, _Annabelle._

The sun set on House Trevelyan as it fell away into the distance, columns of light cascading in decadent streams that broke through the dimmed sky. Lady Elizabeth Trevelyan stood like a statue on the front steps, hand clutched adjacent to her heart as her breath fled her in graceless gasps. Her heart bled as she watched—_fucking watched_—her own flesh and blood being yanked along, like _dogs_. The quivering hand moved to cover her mouth, teeth catching her forefinger and biting down hard enough to draw a wince from the woman. _Maker, damn you—damn them all to the void._ Hands tied behind her back—completely _useless_—when she was needed most, _fuck_. Parrish, Maker no…not her darling boy, not…not him. His heart of pure gold, the forefront of his Achille’s heel was how it bled for others, never himself. Spine of steel, unbending, unbroken. _Andraste's ashes, but how they would break him, tear him away from himself until so little was left and he was lost, never to be found._ Tears streamed down her sunken in cheeks, clinging to the stretched skin. Annie. The poor girl never had a chance, always a black sheep—her golden protector sentencing himself to share her fate. The carriage drew out of sight and all the Lady could spot was the splotch of red fluttering out the barred window, braided into ebony strands.

Bann Alexander Trevelyan sat in a brothel as his children were chained and carted away, his weathered hands digging into the soft flesh of the woman sitting scantily clad in his lap. He moved his lips across her skin, nipping sloppily at the juncture of her neck and shoulder—to which she moaned, feigning pleasure as she did with all the others. Alexander whispered obscenities to the woman who’s name he did not know, nor care to, taking in her huffs of placidity with a stuttered roll of his hips into hers. He dug his fingers into her hair roughly, yanking her head back and losing himself to the formidable feeling of this woman so powerless beneath him. The Bann did not even remember that it was his youngests’ name day.

Annabelle Trevelyan’s mind was touched that—_tainted_—by otherworldly beings she could not defend herself against. A piece of her shattered, continuously chipping away at her until it consumed her. She would never tell anyone—not a single soul—about the whispers she heard in the dark; rooting to such a depth in her soul that every breath she took was labored. She wore the burden beneath her clothes, jagged scars falling across her skin when seeking to part with the demons trapped beneath.

Unbeknownst to her muddled mind, someone shared those scars, branded into their flesh as they were in her’s and _Holy Maker_—it would be her undoing.

_I promise, Annie, I will never let anything happen to you._


	2. Dorian Pavus

**“Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.”**

**― ** **Allen Ginsberg**

The Maker had a sick sense of humor.

Dorian sat at the formal rosewood dining table, posture perfectly poised and mind focusing intently on not breaking the facade he was currently upholding. Livia Herathinos and her parents sat across on the other side of the table, Halward Pavus—of course— taking the head of the table. Dorian feigned listening to the conversation they were all immersed in, but it appeared it was not leaving much to be desired anyway. Even Livia appeared to grow tiresome about whatever they were talking about. Perhaps it was the elder’s hellbent plan of how they were to be wed sooner rather than later. The mere thought of such a union sickened him.

In turn, Dorian pushed his plate away from him. _Yes_, he thought dryly_, a truly wicked sense of humor._

For years, Dorian had pushed and prodded at his parents, practically falling to his knees and pleading with them to just realize that he could never be what they desired. Not once did they budge. It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on his part, he had _tried_ to push himself to do what was right by his bloodline, what any normal magister’s child was born and bred to do, suppressing and caging every part of themselves that made them different and “dangerous.” He simply did not have it in him to corrupt himself so far beyond repair, but here he sat, across from yet another desperate young woman with yet another desperate family.

Livia Herathinos was as far from what he had expected her to do be as was physically possible. She seemed all too aware of his distaste with her and she had reciprocated the sentiment, quite loudly in fact. Although she had not said so out loud—which he was certain she would do had he ever allowed himself to spend more than a few seconds alone in her company—he could tell the young woman was simply floundering just as he was, the thought made him smirk. The Herathinos bloodline was certainly prestigious in all aspects of the word, successful mages with not quite so many soporati descendants, but they tended to inherit a particular vocabulary that Dorian found taxing.

“Livia has only recently mastered spirit healing,” Lady Herathinos was boasting, much to the displeasure of the Pavus family, whom adored the opposite end of the spectrum in that magic regard, “She-She, what’s the word, dear?” Lady Herathinos had her face scrunched as if this type of thought was practically impossible, much to Dorian’s delight. “She _excelled _at the craft.” Lord Herathinos finished proudly.

Just as Dorian had predicted, a startling case of intellect.

Although the thought of listening to the family ramble on for hours over such frivolous nonsense was appealing to Dorian, he could not help but allow his mind to wander into the deep expanse of nothingness that encaged him. A sigh escaped his permanently pouted lips, which evidentially had not escaped the keen sense of his mother’s gaze as the next thing she said was, “Dorian, why don’t you show Miss Herathinos the gardens? The sun should be setting soon.” His mother’s voice was quipped and more of a command than a question, as always. The bite in her words almost made him flinch—almost.

“Oh Mother,” Dorian began, words laced with sarcasm and dripping with primed venom, “Would that not be improper? Are you not worried I shall whisk the dear lady away and have my wicked way with her?” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, much to the displeasure of Lord and Lady Herathinos, who’s noses were so scrunched in disgust, Dorian was surprised the appendages had not wrinkled yet.

“Oh Dorian,” His mother chastised, tone even and cool, but he could see the vein in her forehead peeking out beneath the skin, “I feel as if that is the least of my worries with you.” A cheerful laugh tipped from her lips, causing the others seated at the table to join in the chorus, masking the rage he knew dipped beneath her skin. The youngest Pavus knew he would be hearing about this hiccup later, probably when he was dragged from his quarters by his earlobe. For now, Dorian simply smiled at her, one end of his well-groomed mustache tickling his cheek as he did so. Livia sat tensed, hands clasped in her lap as her eyes narrowed at the table where her gaze was locked. Someone was a bore.

The young lady stood abruptly—to which Dorian, like any dutiful fiancé, stood as well—, her deep fuchsia skirts twirling around her as a uniform smile fell into place on her thin lips. “Shall we depart then? I would not wish to give the impression of impropriety so early on in such a fruitful marriage.”

All at once Dorian’s heart stung and he ricocheted back into the reality that was his miserable, luxurious present. His lips parted and he wet them with his tongue, clenching his fist at his side to prevent a blistered cry for _help_ ran rampant from his chest. Instead, dreaded despair blossomed in the hole in his chest, rooting itself deep inside him and festering—growing.

Suddenly, a wave of blinding anger encompassed his body, causing him to stumble backward from the sheer force of the emotion. He spotted Livia out of the corner of his eye, concern—real or fake—across her delicate features, her lips moving but the words lost on him. His body burned, as though someone was holding a lit match far too close to his skin. The feeling was suffocating and overwhelming all at once, then he heard it.

_I trusted you, you fucking bastard._

Dorian did not know whether to be more confused about hearing a voice in his head or rather concerned, as this was not a flight of fancy that many divulged in. The voice was male, deep and dark and coiling around his heart like a hissing serpent. Words echoed around his jumbled thoughts, making him tremble with unabashed fear. _Kaffas. There is no way hearing voices is a good sign—in any instance. _The altus could not deny the curiosity that the voice left him with—the thought of _who _it had left him with.

Dorian was brought back to the present by a rough hand clutching his shoulder, fingers digging into him hard enough to elicit a wince from the man. He blinked, grey orbs hitting the dim lighting of the dining room. Halward stood before him, calling his name in a hushed tone as if the others in the room would simply ignore the display in front of them. Livia had a gentle hand on his elbow, surprising, for how harsh her demeanor was usually portrayed as.

“My apologies—“ Dorian shook his head, shaking his head and allowing a few loose strands of jet black hair to fall from their perfectly placed position, “Nothing to be concerned about, I am fine. My Lady, would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a stroll around the gardens?” Dorian tried to prevent his voice from quaking, but it was lost on him if he succeeded in this regard. The fiery red of Livia’s hair brought out the slight flush to her cheeks as she nodded slowly, tilting her head just so to stare at the man, as if she was decoding his very being. The thought in and of itself made Dorian uncomfortable, so he elevated himself of his father’s hold and strode decadently from the room, not bothering to check if Livia was hot on his heels.

Eventually, the pair reached the regal gardens, lush flowers and vines cascading down the smooth walls and intricate decor spread across the landscape. Dorian, still rattled—understandably—by the strange voice echoing in his head. Livia stood silently next to him as he came to a halt in front of a large fountain that—conveniently—had a small bench rooted in front of it. Dorian scoffed. _As if anyone actually came out here to enjoy nature—no, they are all much to preoccupied with speaking in riddles and being shrouded in “mystery”._

As Dorian and Livia sat on the delicately sculpted bench, Dorian’s mind swam with concern for what this—_other being_—was doing in his head. This was not a topic he had breached before, at least not well. He remembered fables spread throughout the circle he studied in as a young boy. The stories of mages hearing a voice in their head—although, he had always deemed these thoughts as the blabbering of heretics. These mages were tethered to another, by blood or by spirit, Dorian could not remember. Maker, he could not even recall the word the circle children had used. _Vishante Kaffas, what was the term—_

“Dorian?” The altus fell from his thoughts, gravitating back into the present—which unfortunately included a certain Livia Herathinos looked at him with the oddest look in her amber eyes. “Yes?” He spoke evenly, voice polite and respectful—even as he kept himself a fairly lengthy distance away from her on the small bench. Livia opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she said was lost before it ever made it to Dorian’s ear.

_She’s dead because of you._

“Dorian.” The same voice bounced around his skull, swirling around and making Dorian clench onto the bench for balance. In contrast, the voice was calmer this time, almost—void. This sent a chill down Dorian’s spine—whomever this haunted voice belonged to, the individual was certainly broken on the other end. “Dorian.” Several things rushed through his pounding heart as the words echoed—firstly, this man’s voice portrayed anguish, and for some ungodly reason, it made Dorian’s heart clench tightly in his chest—secondly, he had to find him.

“Dorian!” Once again, Dorian was thrown from his thoughts, rather abruptly this time, to see Livia clenching his robes in her petite hands, a darkening expression of concern shadowing her face. The pair stared at one another for a moment, both as still as statues, before Livia dropped his robes from her hands and huffed a sigh of frustration before leaning away from him. “Are you even listening to me?” She questioned, voice intended on being clipped and annoyed, but Dorian could sense the shake in her voice. Why would she worry for him? The pair hardly even tolerated one another.

“Of course, Lady Herathinos. One would not simply ignore _you_, now would they?” Although a sharp jab, the tone of his voice was more confused and lost than anything else, which is why he figured Livia bit back the venomous retort he knew she was holding behind her teeth.

Sometime later, after he had managed to drop a silent Livia off at her room without so much as a small nod and a hushed goodbye, Dorian found himself alone in his own bedroom. The rich, royal red curtains that draped across the bedroom framed the outline of the Tevinter setting sun perfectly. Dorian’s eyes were glassy and dissonant as he stared out into the landscaping across the acres of the estate. A million questions bubbled and his mind, about the voice, about the anguish he felt upon hearing it and the indescribable need to hold fast to whomever the other was on the end of the line. Should he ask his father? He should. Although, something kept him rooted in place, a crying out of something inside him that warned that it would not be a wise decision. However, Dorian relented, seeking out his father as soon as he had returned with Livia, telling his father of the voice, to which his father simply grunted, not looking at all surprised, which in turn surprised Dorian. With that plan being little to no help, Dorian sought to isolate himself with a neat stack of books until he could discover if he was truly crazy or not, because apparently to one Magister Pavus, his son hearing voices was completely sane.

_Ashy grey eyes, the same shining shade as the glint of the sword as it came down on the traitor’s neck. Guilt. Fiery and burning next to the satisfaction of seeing the mage crumble to the ground in a bloody heap. “Well done.” The words are empty and the man does not hear them. Strength ripples from his body and tension oozes from his shoulders. This is not a man, but a mere boy. A youthful face, hardened too quickly, having seen too much. Hair, shaven down on the sides and left slipping from its brushed back position on the top of his head. It is grey, the same as his eyes. He is beautiful. Beautiful and scarred, a laceration carved in a jagged pattern from the apple of his cheek to the fine structure of his jaw. His body slacks, dropping the sword and falling to his knees in front of the mage. Regret._

Dorian’s eyes snap open, heated gaze shifting across the room quickly, looking to spot the boy, the blood. He finds nothing, and for once, Dorian is saddened by the lack of gore spread across his floor. _Who are you? _He questions himself. _Why did you kill that man?_ The thought leaves him even more confused, a feeling he is not quite so familiar with, leaving him with a frustrated tension in his brow.

A gentle knock on the door shocks him and he finds himself tensed, as if preparing for the glinting sword to fall down onto his head next. However, the door opens to reveal a hesitant Livia, calling his name and glancing around the room with a look of confusion until she spots him, falling to his knees on the floor, a position he had not even known himself to be in. Surprisingly, Livia rushed to him, as a mother would to her child, and helped him off of the floor and into one of the leather-upholstered chairs placed carefully by the window.

She sat in the seat across from him, her back not quite settling against the cushion. “Dorian,” she began, wetting her lips as they became dry, only then did the later notice her trembling lip, “I know we are not the most conventional pair but—“ Dorian raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow at that. “—what is happening to you? I heard our fathers whispering about in the study and I have my suspicions, but I simply want to ensure that what is happening is not what I truly fear it is.”

This only caused Dorian’s brow to furrow further, a wave of dizziness wracking him as he sat forward quickly, eyes narrowed into her’s. “Oh and what, pray tell, are our fathers gossiping about now? _Kaffas, _to anyone with eyes it is clear as day that we were not a match made by the Maker, if that is truly their concern.” Dorian bluffed, but the trembling of his hands gave away the suspicions he held about what this intrusion was truly about.

Livia only ignored him, shaking her head and glancing down into her lap, the frantic running of her fingers through her perfectly placed hair throwing Dorian off-kilter. Only now did he notice that the woman was stilled dressed into the uncomfortable looking dress that he had seen her in when they had taken their walk. Had she not stayed in her room after Dorian had walked her there? _Evidently not._

“Dorian,” her voice was trembling and hushed as she leaned close to him—close enough to almost hear the frantic pounding of his heart against his chest—almost. “Did you ever hear the stories of the ‘bound’? I would assume not, as they originated as a simple Fereldan fairy tale that the old sisters of the chantry used to tell the children to avoid—“ Livia cut herself off, realizing she was blabbering and Dorian was staring at her like she had two heads. She sighed, clasping her hands together to cease the shaking and starting again, “The bound two individuals, most commonly only one of magical blood, who are tethered to one another, mind and soul. This bond is forbidden and disregarded as heresy by the Fereldan chantry, but if disguised, not usually uncovered. In Tevinter, it is disgraceful. If the other of the bond is not from a formidable family, the bond is…severed.” A shiver ran through Livia’s body. “These bonds are dangerous. As a pair, two bonded individuals are regarded as a force to be reckoned with. They enhance one another’s strength, being why the chantry is so against the concept. The signs start out subtle, visions, hearing voices—“ Dorian quivered, “—but once they have received their marks, it only becomes worse.”

Dorian’s head swam with millions upon millions of questions. This assessment was not logical. An old fable he had heard whispered in the circle could not be true, but he had no other explanation, so he fed into Livia’s story. “Marks?” He questioned.

Livia’s lips lifted into a ghost of a smile, gone as soon as it arrived, as if thinking back on some old memory. “Bonds are born of chaos. Nobody knows why they happen and not everyone has one. The markings are a sign of the strife the individual has endured, matching scars born of hatred and sorrow. The theory is that the Maker blesses these two with one another_ because_ of the trials they have endured, or will endure, allowing them one another so they may be strong—_whole_—once again.”

Once again, Dorian was left baffled. _She was serious? Vishante Kaffas._

“I tell you this to warn you, Dorian. Your father knows of the other half, he does not intend to be kind to them.” Dorian shook his head, overwhelmed and at a loss for words. “Dorian, I told my father when I started hearing the voices. My bond became stronger, I went to him in the Fade, I saw him. I told my father of him, of his face, where he lived. He was a lowly elf, living in an alienage in the bitter cold heart of Fereldan. He was to me as I was to him, another half to a whole. My father had him assassinated. I did not even know his name. It was _crushing_, Dorian.”

Dorian’s mind was jumbled and confused and once again, he shook his head. “My father would not do that Livia, he would take any advantage of power he could and covet it.” Dorian’s voice was shaky and distant, even he did not know if this was the truth, but _Maker, _did he want to believe it was. The thought of anyone harming this—_stranger_—was a foreign ache, one he did not understand.

“He does not plan to hurt them, Dorian, he plans to hurt you both.”


	3. Parrish Trevelyan

**“It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.”**

**— Niccolo Machiavelli**

The breath left Parrish’s lungs in short, painful gasps, seizing up in his chest and threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. His body trembled, aches racing up and across his muscles in a succession of one after another after another. Parrish is bruised and battered—skin littered with half-healed wounds and fresh colorings—yet he does not submit when the weight of a dull blade slams into his ribs with all of the ruthlessness abandonment he can only imagine men of war have felt. Sweat beads at his brow, but he bites his tongue to hold the cry that threatens to explode from his throat, _he must endure._

“Benedictions 4:10 and 4:11, recruit,” the templar ricocheting his blade off the young boy—barely on the cusp of fourteen—in front of him bites out, “now.” There are others watching, other recruits, other _boys and girls _awaiting their turn to take center stage, trembling in the worn leathers that they have been given. The templars assigned to the recruits are wearing their thin iron sets, a dulled blade clasped throughout all their hands in a blatant show of uniformity. Parrish does not miss the hesitance of some as they wield the weapon against other recruits when he waits his turn. Now, it is his turn, wrapped in his fist is a blade half the size of the senior member’s, light enough to fit in one hand, which leaves Parrish in a disarray of what to do with the other. He had quickly discovered the templar whom he would be challenging did not care much for the excuses of wanting a shield.

“Blessed are they—“ the man’s blade swings at him, Parrish flinches back in narrow avoidance, “—who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” His matches his movements, bone-tired and clear exhaustion dripping through his words, his muscles sag and his body sways on the defensive. The templar has barely even broken a sweat, pulling back his scarred mouth into a grimace and swinging at the boy again—this time the blade catches him in the arm, a new blossom of pain shooting across his nerves. Parrish bites down so hard onto his lip that he can taste the iron of the blood dripping down his lips.

“Blessed are the..the..” his voice cracks and the words are blank in his head. Parrish has recited Benedictions religiously—metaphorically and physically—why are the words escaping him? The young Trevelyan cannot even answer himself before the templar is snarling in anger, surging forward and grabbing onto the front of his leathers, bringing their faces within inches of one another. The man is so close, Parrish can feel the harsh bite of his breath against his cheeks, he can see the anger swelling in his eyes and quickly spreading across his face—the grip tightens.

“Foolish boy!” The templar snaps, bringing a hand up to pierce the delicate skin of the youth’s cheek, spit biting against Parrish’s heated flesh as he attempts to hold back the flinch of fear that lances through his body, “Have you no devotion to show to the Maker? He, who has shown his devotion time and time again?” The words are biting, and suddenly, Parrish is transported back to his home on the coast—the fierce roar of the waves slamming against the rocks. His father putting a hand on him, a bruise blossoming across his cheek. _“How dare you defile the Trevelyan name! How dare you forsake my blood by tarnishing the Maker’s words! You, foolish boy, are no son of mine.” _He would cry, clutching his cheek and sobbing in his room for hours, pouring over the Maker’s word in a vain attempt to please his father. His mother would listen from his door, hand always hovering at the doorknob but never having the courage to turn the handle.

Yet now, his mother was not here, and this man was not his father.

_You are stronger than you can even imagine, amatus._

Parrish raised his eyes toward the templar, blood pooling in crimson streams down his flushed face. Anger grips him, eyes narrowing and heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” he finds his words. The Trevelyan rips himself from the templars grasp, staggering back in weariness, but the adrenaline claims him and the sword in his hand is raised before he realizes. The iron-clad man has grown a bit slower, Parrish has noticed, his heavy armor both a sin and a shield—the man being too arrogant to realize such a fact. “Blessed are the righteous,” he spits, wielding the dulled blade and moving forward on skilled feet, slamming the weapon against the sputtering templars weak points as he fights to gain back the advantage. Yet, Parrish has won the element of surprise—and he holds the high ground. The screech of metal carving metal echoes throughout the training chamber, sweat beading down the pair’s brows as the duel of sheer force of will rages on.

“—the lights in the shadow,” his voice is hoarse as Parrish advances, parrying—attack—dodge—attack—relentless in the pursuit of victory. The man gets several hits on his battered body, but the Trevelyan appears not to feel them, continuing his advance and in turn, the templar falls back several steps. The worn scrap of crimson fabric is protected under the leathers he wears, but it erupts like a fire and begins to feel as though it is burning a hole through his chest and all at once Parrish knows she is there. _Annie _is here—watching—lurking in the shadows of sight and surely, Parrish cannot allow his twin to witness him get his ass handed to him.

“—in their blood—“ a cry falls from his lips as he pushes himself, firing forward and releasing all he has onto the templar in front of him—like an animal backed into a corner. “—the Maker’s will is written!” A thunderous growl rumbles across the walls of the arena and Parrish does not know who the noise originated from, only that the templar is before him, weapon fallen and body bleeding as he leans against the wall. Both of the men are panting, lungs burning and chests heaving as they stare at one another, eyes brimming with different cascading emotions. Parrish eyes the weapon still clutched in his hand, then toward his superior’s lying abandoned on the floor next to him. His fingers find the hilt of his opponent’s sword. Silence overtakes the arena.

Parrish brings his shaking arm up, wiping the blood pouring down his face on the back of the already stained leathers and finally looks away from the beaten templar who has now taken to glaring a simmering hole into the side of the youth’s head. The boy moves with proud footfalls to the Knight-Corporal in charge of the charade. The sounds of his leather clad feet hitting the aged stone are the only sounds echoing around the heavily occupied hall.

Parrish Trevelyan says nothing as he places the sword before the Corporal, bringing his eyes forward in a small act of defiance he knows he will be held accountable for later, and moves to join the other recruits who have already been subject to the beating in the infirmary. Still, not one soul utters a word as he exits the room. Only the whoosh of a robe is heard—Parrish is the only one who catches the faint noise.

“What the _bloody hell _were you thinking?!” Annie cries as she paces in front of her—admittedly less intelligent—twin, who has taken up residence on one of the infirmary beds in the back of the hall, where the other recruits cannot hear his sister’s outburst. “Do you realize what you have done? What you have unleashed? You have a target on your back, Parrish, a _big bloody target _with the words ‘proud spoiled brat, feel free to kick my ass’ written on it in bright red ink.” Annabelle barely takes a breath throughout their whole altercation and Parrish has taken up counting how many times she has done so throughout her melodrama, considering he probably could not even get a word in if he tried. Right now, he’s made it to four times in the last five minutes.

“Annie,” he finally pipes up, words breathy and hoarse which most likely does not help with the knot of worry wound between her brows, but he continues anyway, “I don’t understand what the problem is—“ she cuts him off with an offended huff and the throwing of her delicate arms in the air, an air of exasperation rolling off of her in waves. Thankfully, the healers have seen to him before his firecracker of a sister had shown up, bandages covering the worst of the wounds but only faint scars and bruises left of the minor ones, the ache something that had not receded from his bones. However, when Annie has swept into the medical wing in a fiery haze—knotted red hair a flurry behind her and a murderous gleam in her eye—all of the occupants surrounding Parrish seemed to quickly disassociate themselves from the boy.

“_You don’t understand what the problem is?” _The female Trevelyan’s voice was shrill as she hissed at him, making the bigger of the two flinch back and tense as if the girl before him was a giant five times his size. “The problem, dear brother, is that you have gone and gotten yourself into a dangerous situation—_again—_might I add. Surely you can understand where I see this from? The obvious grave you have dug yourself by showing up a Maker-made templar in front of his entire _order?_” Annie’s eyes were turning desperate instead of angry and she moved herself to sit beside him, hand clutching his so tightly he had to bite back the wince brought on by her gripping at his bruised knuckles. The girl didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she chose to ignore it. “You are a recruit, Parrish, and while I am so incredibly proud of what you did to that self-righteous pig”—he smiled—“what you did was also incredibly stupid.”—the smile stayed anyway—“These people own us, Parrish,”—the smile fell—“we play by their rules. By defying them you proved to them you’re more than just a mindless child. They are going to try to break you and I don’t know if I can simply sit around and watch that happen. Not to you, I—“ Her voice broke, tears welling in the corners of her eyes and well—that almost shattered Parrish’s heart.

“Annabelle,” he spoke gently, moving impossibly closer to his sister and wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a comforting manner, pulling the girl to his chest, “These people are not our family, they are not how we must define ourselves. You will always be more than a simple circle mage and I will always be more than a magic buzzkill in shining armor,”—that earned him a soft giggle—“you’re my sister and we’re together, no one can ever take that away from us.” He brushed his fingers through her hair, feeling her sobs descend into gentle hiccups, a small smile spreading across his busted lip. “I swore I would never let anything happen to you, didn’t I? Why would I promise such a thing if I intended on letting myself get compromised along the way? You keep me on my toes—“ he laughed, “—I must be in tip-top shape to protect you.” Annie lifted her head and punched him gently in the arm, playful, but the action still sent a shiver of pain down his body.

“I believe you,” Annabelle was quiet, seemingly losing herself in her thoughts and Parrish was just about to make another joke to pull her from the depths of her mind when she let a stunning grin spread across her lips, “I guess I just have to keep a watchful eye on you too, since you seem so keen on being the badass of the circle.”

Parrish’s heart was full of love. If his family could not see the beauty in her simply because of her magic, then he would be there for her. Always.

Parrish tossed and turned that night, eyes moving erratically beneath the seal of his lids, breath escaping his slightly parted lips in hushed pants. The echo of his body brushing the sheet that was strewn over him was the only noise besides the soft snores of fellow recruits in their quarters. No one seemed to notice the boy softly crying out in his sleep, that or no one bothered to care. Nightmares assaulted his sleep, chasing his conscience and hunting for his fear. Mostly, his terrors were to do with his father, but as of late, they had become more frequently related to the gruesome image of Annie lying slain on the cold stone ground of the Harrowing chamber—Parrish’s eyes flashing down to see the blood covering his hands, the sword clenched in his fist. Most nights, he would wake up before his sister’s ghost ascended to hound his sleep—most nights.

_“You didn’t save me, Parrish.”_

_“You promised me.”_

_“You did this to me.”_

_“This is all your fault.”_

_“Everything is your fault.”_

_“YOU. PROMISED. ME.”_

This sent Parrish flying upright in the rickety bed, sweat beading down his body in waves and breaths coming out in quick succession one after another. His eyes searched around the room with a frantic gaze, perhaps expecting to see the manifestation of Annie, but he saw nothing. The boy brought his hands up to his face, running his sweaty palms across his burning red eyes, rubbing them with his palm. His head aches and his heart was beating like a hammer and all Parrish could do was lie back down with his eyes glued to the ceiling.

Dark auburn locks fell across the stiff pillow in firm contrast to the sterile white of the pillowcase, strands sticking out all across his head and slick with sweat. His mind still swam with fear—an overwhelming amount—so Parrish sucked in a deep breath and instead turned his focus toward the slowing rise and fall of his chest. Rise, fall, _one. _The Trevelyan closed his eyes and chased sleep, tensing whenever he heard the faintest echo of a noise reverberating off of the cold stone walls. Rise, fall, _two._

If Parrish thought hard enough, he could almost remember the feel of his mother running her fingers through his sweat soaked hair when he was a child. She would speak to him in soft tones, whisper words of affirmation and caress his scalp to lull him back to the confines of sleep when he had woken in a fright. Rise, fall, _three. _She smelled faintly of the sea that beat relentlessly against the land, a warmth radiating from her that only seemed to surround her—the clothes she wore, her hair. His mother was a beautiful woman. Elizabeth Trevelyan had tumbling auburn hair, a stark match to Parrish’s own locks, and the shining blue hue of her eyes, a shimmering difference to his grey pair. He couldn’t help but wonder if when his mother had looked into his eyes, she had seen his father. Rise, fall, _four._

Alexander Trevelyan was by no means a kind and compassionate father. Rather, he was simply a vile, weathered man who had little care for his children, much less his family. He was callous and cruel—though the wounds had faded, Parrish’s mind remembered what that man had inflicted upon him—what his _father _had done. _Maker, _he hoped someone was there to keep mother company in that house. Rise, fall, _five. _Parrish’s breaths evened and he fell into a light sleep, pulled into deep abyss of his dreams.

_Parrish was looking out on a snowy landscape, stature taller than he remembered being, body heavier than he recalled. The Trevelyan could not see himself, only the dissipating trail of footprints in the snow in front of him. He could not see who they led too, but his heart raced at the idea of someone at the end of the trail—he moved quickly in the direction they led. Parrish’s breath hit the air visibly, a small cloud of humidity leaving his lips as his breaths picked up—heart beating and mind moving a mile a minute. All that occupied his thoughts was the simple question; “where is he?”_

_The vision warped again, depositing the boy in a warmly lit tavern, the echoing chatter of the occupants rolling around him. Even in the dream, he felt heavier—less of a child and more of a man—but this wasn’t the Fade, he wasn’t a mage, he would not know these things until he awoke. Sat in front of him, was the faded silhouette of a..man? Parrish squinted, reaching out toward the man seated in the chair beside him, but his hands met nothing._

_“Hello?” Trevelyan’s voice echoed throughout the chasm of his dream, but no one turned to acknowledge him, not even the man mere inches in front of him. “Who are you?” He questioned, leaning forward again in a hopeful attempt at catching the man’s hand. It seemed the person had heard him, for the faded man turned to give him a sidelong glance—though Parrish still could not make out the finer details of his appearance. The man’s hand shot out, reaching forward and brushing his fingertips against Parrish’s cheek and the boy couldn’t find it in himself to pull away._

_It appeared the shadow’s mouth was moving, but his was were garbled and Parrish could not make out any but the faint echo of one word, “amatus..”_

Once again, the young Trevelyan awoke in a sweat, but instead this time his eyes simply shot wide open and his body froze to the sweat soaked bed. Thoughts swam through his mind, questions shooting themselves around; _Who was that? Why couldn’t I see them? What did they say? What does it mean? _Yet, in the midst of his hushed panic, Parrish could not help but reach up and brush his own fingertips over his cheek—echoing the man’s touch. _Maker, _what was he doing? The Trevelyan dropped his hand from his cheek, instead worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and rolling onto his side in the creaky old bed.

He debated telling Annie, even went so far as to question some of the older templars about the dreams echoing in his head—he didn’t, of course. Both of them would tell him he was simply crazy or worse, that these were not just dreams—that he _was _seeing something. This thought, it seemed, scared him more than the idea of his sister looking at him with wide eyes and a half-concealed humor rising up to her eyes.

He didn’t tell her, he never told anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psa, i took ages to write this chapter, hated it, then rewrote it into this in one night. then, as i'm on the precipice of sleep deprivation because i was definitely not going to stop writing until i was finished, i spill water all over my bed. in turn, i was awake late into the am's using a blow dryer to dry my sheets. essentially, i am saying that this chapter was written in blood, sweat, and tears. hope you enjoyed.


	4. Parrish & Annie

**“It is like writing history with lightning and my only regret is that it is all so terribly true.”**

**— Woodrow Wilson**

**PARRISH TREVELYAN**

It was as if he was drowning. Parrish’s lungs burned with the effort of holding the sword and shield up to his chest, tip poised and pointed at the apprentice currently sprawled across the floor in the center of the room. This Harrowing was nearing the four-hour mark. _Maker_—four hours that this young mage had been trapped in the Fade—four hours that this girl could currently still be spent fending off the demons itching to overwhelm her. This was why Parrish never should have asked her name.

_Sofia._

Her cascading blonde locks fell to the middle of her back, curling to showcase the softness of her face. The youthfulness glowed from her—not harsh—as was the battered and scarred faces of the old templars and mages that inhibited the circle. Parrish himself, barely on the cusp of nineteen, was more filled out than that of the normal boys his age. A decade of templar training had made him sharp and rigid—and yet the twinge of youthful optimism stayed shining in his eyes. This woman—this _girl_—would make it, she had to. The burn of his overworked muscles settled him and brought him from his torturous thoughts. She could not be much older than him herself. He thought perhaps she reminded him of Annie, but her Harrowing would not take place until tomorrow. Andraste—_tomorrow—_he would be forced to sit here and wait as his sister wandered the fade. _Maker, _he would be forced to _watch. _Yet, Parrish would not have wished to part from the other Trevelyan. He wanted to be there to hold his sister close and promise that he would have ripped the veil apart piece by piece if it meant her safety.

For now, he sat vigilantly at the precipice of the true raw power of a mage, untamable and wild—at least in Sofia’s case—watching as her body twitched ever so slightly. The templar next to him was weathered and seasoned, eyes trained with such precision that Parrish found himself eyeing the man beside him rather than the girl situated in the center of the room. His eyes wandered around the grand chamber, catching a glimpse of the few mages that were there to bear witness to the test of magical aptitude and mental will. The First Enchanter and several of his senior colleagues watched with bated breath as Sofia began to tremble more frequently. The atmosphere of the room was haunted, perhaps by the souls of vengeful apprentices; perhaps he was just being the young, scared child he was years ago. Parrish remembered it as clear as day, his wet soaked leathers clinging to his skin as he wore his voice raw screaming for the fiery red-head in the coach beside his. He remembered his eyes burning, clutching at the crimson token around his neck as the familiar sight of the Trevelyan house fell away behind them..

_The gentle brush of calloused skin against soft. A fluttering laugh echoing across the wall they are pushed up against. A hushed breath, lips brushing against one another, tongues brushing. Cold fingers brush across his cheek, dragging his lip down with the last whisper of, “amatus..”_

“Templars, be on your guard!” The Knight Commander of the circle shouted from across the circle, face tightened with concentration and pensive, “Swords at the ready.” Parrish was unabashedly shaken from his thoughts, an embarrassed flush brazing his cheeks as his free hand came up to clutch the slightly worn bandana hanging from his neck. _Maker, what was that? I am not even asleep. Who are you? Let me know you. _Parrish shook his head. The sound of shifting metal was heard as the templars spread around the room fell into a defensive stance, pulling down the front of their helms, as if that would be necessary. Parrish’s heart pounded—_would that be necessary?_

Sofia’s eyes shot open, a loose gasp slipping from her lips as her pale, delicate hands clutched at the pedestal she was draped against. The templar’s swords shot up, her ragged breathing startling the group, besides Parrish, who had yet to even slide his guard down in front of his face. The trembling blonde needed a fleshy face, the same as her—familiar—not just the cold faces of armored soldiers ready to strike her down if it need be. Compassion burned bright in Parrish’s heart, he felt somber and almost found his feet moving of their own accord to shield her. He held himself steadfast, steely irises piercing into hers, blue as the coast that howled outside the house he had lived in as a child. _Home._

“F-First Enchanter..” Sofia’s voice was timid and airy, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes as she whipped her head around wildly in search of the First Enchanter. Yet, the man stood in the back of the room, eyeing the woman as if she was a lamb sent to the slaughter rather than the petrified woman Parrish saw.

Whispers danced off the walls, the weary templars eyeing Knight Commander Palis with an uncertainty of the next step to take. Parrish found his heart slamming harder against his chest, his breath leaving him as he watched the commander point to a greying templar with his blade. The senior member was scarred and had a dangerous glint in his eye, a small sadistic grin pulling up one side of his jagged mouth. Sofia shook her head, a gentle whimper leaving her lips as she tripped over her gangly limbs in an attempt to back away from the fast-approaching man. “No..please.” Her words came out choked and innocent, and Parrish’s heart clenched.

As she backed away, he broke formation, slipping toward the mage despite the protests of his fellow templars surrounding him. “Trevelyan get back into formation.” The voice of his superior seemed distant as he descended on the young girl, who’s terrified eyes were now turned toward him, a flush of frost tickling her fingertips.

Maintaining eye contact, he set the glinting sword and shield on the ground, holding his hands out to her so she could see he bared her no ill will. “Trevelyan, you get back in the fucking line or so help me—“ a beat. “—You’re scaring her.” The words left Parrish’s lips before he even had time to reflect on the consequences. Instead, he focused on Sofia, nearing her and tilting his head in a silent question. She didn’t move. “Sofia,” he began gently, inching closer, “that’s your name, yes?” She nodded shakily, so he continued. “You remember me, don’t you? I’m Parrish, Annie’s brother.” Sofia nodded again, but more subdued. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise—“ he lowered his voice, “—but you’re going to have to trust me. I won’t let them hurt you.” He reached for her and in her tear-stained state, she let him.

Parrish gently placed his hands on both sides of her face, taking note of the elvish ears hidden behind her hair with a gentle smile. “This won’t hurt.” His voice was soft as he felt her mind. It wasn’t meant to be an invasive process. but years of templar-mage tension had led to aggressive tactics from both parties. Yet, for her, it felt as gentle as if he was stroking her hair.

After several seconds, he dropped his hands from her cheeks, fixing her with a gentle look and turning toward the senior templar stood only a few feet from the pair. “She’s not possessed.” He spoke matter of factly, eyes locked with the other man’s.

Of course, this assurance was met with a grimace and a scoff. “I won’t be takin’ the words of no pup.” The man’s tone held venom as he advanced on the pair, to which Sofia cried out and clutched onto Parrish’s arm with vigor. The young Trevelyan stood firm, eyes narrowing into slits as he watched the templar. The other man was far more muscled, but Parrish held a few inches over him, perhaps if he—“Enough.” The resounding boom of the strong voice bounced across the room and the girl holding onto him flinched. Palis stepped forward, stoic expression revealing nothing to Parrish as he slid his guard up. “It seems our young companion knows best, Leeds. The Templar Order is not one to discourage the blossoming of our youth.” A few templars snickered, until the Knight Commander held up his armored hand for silence. “Trevelyan,” He spoke, turning his attention toward the young pair, “Escort the mage down to her new quarters.. As for you,” his voice was callous and harsh as he moved forward, so close Parrish could feel the heat of his breath against his face, “I find myself thinking you belong somewhere more..primal.” He spit his words, anger finally flaring across his aged face. “Kindly situate yourself in the mabari hold. If you’re to act like a dog, perhaps you should live like one.” His words were biting and meant to sting, but all Parrish could focus on was the relieved breath that escaped his lungs from the knowledge that Sofia would not be punished for his actions. Therefore, he nodded, steel eyes hard and holding the gazes of all those who dared to stare as he led Sofia from the chamber.

The walk past the templar barracks and toward the mage quarters was fairly quiet for the most part. Sofia had long since released Parrish, instead keeping as close to him as humanly possible without touching the intimidating armor covering his body, clinking every time he took a step. The sound was almost overwhelming, a chorus of rising noise with all the other thoughts bubbling inside him. His feet carried him unconsciously toward the familiar tingle of magic, his gaze distant as he lost himself in worry for what the consequences of his actions might be. Would they punish his dear sister? Forgiveness of himself would not come easy, if that was the case.

“Thank you.”

The voice was soft and quiet, almost incoherent to even Parrish’s well-trained ears. Shook from the depths of his mind, Parrish glanced at the girl beside him, only to come face to face with the elf who appeared to have her eyes locked intently on him already. A flush crept up to color his cheeks.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he cleared his throat, facing forward once again before he could embarrass himself further, “I was only doing what was right. Templars are supposed to protect mages, not use them as an ill supplied crutch.” Parrish Trevelyan was far more well-versed in the dangers of magic than one of his age should have been. He understood the need to contain this maker given gift, lest it become a curse. An all too familiar tingling erupted across his cheek, the gentle scar spread from his cheekbone to his jaw aching. The scar was thin, only gouged more toward where he had taken the brunt of the hit, all off-white in hue. When Annie and he had first arrived at the circle, she had been in a suffocating amount of stress, as was to be expected. She had gifted him with the gem on accident, a quick lash from throwing her arms out to ward away his touch, in turn marring his young features with the gash of a man well beyond his years. Annie had cried and cried..

“I do,” the soft reply came, doe eyes peering up at Parrish, “Regardless of the templar’s intended purpose, no such one would have performed such a virtuous act, save you.” She smiled at him and the boy’s chest ached.

“Was that such act truly one of virtue?” He questioned in return, a small smirk slipping across his features as he looked down at her, “Or one of utter disregard for my own well-being? As you heard, I am to resort to sleeping with the mabari now. Perhaps I will be better suited to such barbaric means.” He was teasing, the phrasing of his words a gentle prod to her high bred way of speaking. Even being the offspring of noble House Trevelyan, Parrish found himself articulating as though he were born and bred on a farm rather than in a teryn’s household.

Sofia didn’t seem to mind. A giggle escaped her lips as she eyed him with a warmth he had not been accustomed to catching sight of before. “Perhaps.”

The pair reached the mage’s quarters and both said their gentle goodbyes before Parrish made his way obediently down toward the kennels. Annie would find him, she always knew where to look.

**ANNIE TREVELYAN**

Annabelle moved with a delicate precision. Her clothed feet were silent against the old stone tour, whereas the echos around her were that of the old tutor studying diligently in the library; or perhaps the young templar being forced to keep watch outside the mages quarters, but soon found himself leaning against the wall in tired support. The red-head’s eyes twinkled, the alluring loudness of the tower providing the soft push and pull of the cooing voices clawing at her mind with a distraction.

Annie’s hair was tied back with a worn scrap of crimson fabric, revealing the shining light of her eyes beneath the moonlight that peaked through the tower windows. She slipped effortlessly by the young templar, delving into the shadows as if they were an old friend. Soon enough, her feet had unconsciously carried her to the entrance of Keslin’s shared quarters, a place she had become familiar with over the years she had spent in the circle. She need not even call to him, he moved out from the shadows of the room, a small smile spread across his lips. The elf looked as if he was born of fire, deep skin and pitch hair. Annie’s heart fluttered as their eyes met, his presence a familiar comfort.

“Vhen’an,” Keslin moved toward her, the endearment rolling off his lips as if it had been spoken a thousand times. A warmth filled her, flashes of her lover’s smile, bright and shining in the gentle light of their magic. Another, his hand in hers, tanned skin contrasting her porcelain, his eyes catching hers and a laugh echoing. Blinking back the flashes, she caught his hand in hers, smiling at him and catching her lip in between her teeth. Keslin made the voices quiet. Keslin showed her she was more.

“Mon chéri,” Annie whispered back, reaching her free hand up to brush across his cheek, he leaned into the touch greedily. “My brother has found himself a new bunk in the kennels, or so I’m told,” she sighed, dropping her hand from his cheek, “I wish to visit him before the..” The Harrowing. Long buried demons creeping toward the surface, claws digging in and drowning her, the brush of that cold darkness that sung such a sweet siren’s song.. Annabelle Trevelyan would be thrown to her longest kept secret, a delicacy for such horrors that waited beyond the Fade, ready to tear her from herself.

Keslin smirked, leaning forward to brush their lips against one another’s, sensing her troubled thoughts but thankfully assuming it was out of concern for her brother rather than her own sanity. “Parrish is resourceful, I am sure he’s made good enough friends with the mabari already. They might even share their beds.” His words brushed against her lips, soft breath making her shiver.

A gentle laugh fell from her mouth, but she still looked at him as if he hung the stars. Her world revolves around him, and his, her. “I don’t doubt it,” Annie began, giggle lightly and pulling reluctantly away from Keslin so that she did not give into temptation and slink off into the darkness with him, as she had so many times before. “I need to go see him, make sure he doesn’t try to do something incredibly heroic, yet daft tomorrow.” Her voice held a lilt of teasing, but she knew he would. She knew he’d throw himself down on a blade if meant keeping her safe, and she him.

With that, the lovers parted and the Trevelyan made her way down to the kennels, cloaking herself in the dark corners of the tower to prevent detection by the templars on duty. Annie was not an exceptionally powerful mage, but she new enough basic cloaking spells that had managed to fool even that of the senior templars throughout her years at the circle. Keslin’s gentle presence in her mind was a comfort to her beating heart all the same. He consumed her. His thoughts were her’s and her thoughts were his. They were Bound. Stitched together by the matching miles of scars they shared, lancing all across their bodies. Annie never uttered a word of their union to anyone, save Parrish. If their bond was revealed to the circle, the pair would face the wrath of the chantry, a fate that left Annie trembling.

Annabelle squinted her ocean eyes in a vain attempt to catch sight of her brother in the dim and darkened cellar that was the mabari hold. Yet, she dared not say his name, if anyone else was down there, should wouldn’t make it to see her Harrowing.

Suddenly, arms surrounded her, slipping around her waist and effectively pinning her arms to her sides. Annie tensed, magic immediately bubbling to the surface when she felt the familiar chuckle of her brother behind her. The crackling magic that lanced through her blood immediately disappeared and she narrowed her eyes, slamming her elbow unceremoniously into Parrish’s abdomen and slipping out of his grasp as he clutched his stomach.

“No wonder they stuck you down here with the dogs,” she huffed, running her hands along the cotton material of her robes and coaxing out the wrinkles, “—they are obviously much better behaved than you.” Her brother choked on his laugh, still clutching his center with breathless laughs leaving his lips. “You know—“ he gasped, heaving in a few deep breaths and hesitantly releasing his middle, eyeing Annie with caution as if she were going to do it again, “—that’s not a very polite way to treat your favorite sibling. Shall I have Jules replace you as my favorite sister?” Parrish’s tone was teasing and light, and Annie silently thanked her brother for knowingly providing her with a distraction from the light of tomorrow’s events.

Annie simple threw her hands on her hips in faux annoyance and paced toward the small, haphazard palette Parrish had set up on the musty ground, arranging it in a more functional manner. “If Jules was to be your favorite sister,” she bummed, looking over her shoulder with playful, gleaming eyes, “—you would have to tragically regress into a state of deafness, as I don’t think there is a single soul alive who can stand to listen to the dear Julia Trevelyan for longer than fifteen minutes.” She giggled, taking a seat on the small mess of blankets she had arranged, patting the spot beside her in invitation.

Parrish huffed a laugh and fell down beside her, legs spread in front of him as his hands fiddle anxiously with the faded crimson fabric tied around his neck. He hadn’t failed to notice Annie’s matching scrap was weaved delicately into her auburn locks.

The air around the pair fell flat, a sombre aura illuminating the darkness and echoing all the unspoken words between them. “Parrish, it’s going to be okay.” Annie was the first to speak, managing to keep her voice relatively level and turn to catch his shimmering eyes with her own. “I know what to do, I could do it in my sleep,” her brother let a small laugh leave his lips and Annie smiled gentle, “—and you’ll be there to keep watch, baby brother.”

Parrish’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, but he rolled his eyes nonetheless. Born a mere two minutes after Annie, he had always been deemed the ‘baby brother,’ but for now, he let her have the small victory.

“I promised I would never let anything happen to you,” his eyes softened and he found his hand gripping her own, voice full of fierce promise, “—and I intend to keep my promise, Annie.”

Annabelle Trevelyan’s eyes shown with a thin veil of tears and she prayed to the Maker that her brother could not see the reflection of sadness in her irises. She parted her lips to speak, but they were trembling with the effort of forming words. _I know, _she wanted to say, _but now, I have to do the protecting. Now, it’s time for me to protect you. Even if what I’m protecting you from is me._


End file.
